Marc Cameron - Act of Terror

Still, it was such a shame.

He stood, putting some distance between them. His wife was old and smelled of raw melon and cold tea. The scent of young Tara Doyle had enraged his passions. He could not be blamed for that. It was natural.

“The time has come then,” he said.

“Good,” Tara sniffed, getting to her feet. “I’m ready for this damn thing to be over.”

“What of your brother? He will be on the island with everyone else. Does this give cause to change your mind?”

Tara dropped the silk scarf on the bed, and turned to go. “I have no brother in America,” she hissed. “I need to go. Peace be unto you, Doctor.”

Quinn fought to press unthinkable images of Kim and Mattie from his thoughts. He’d seen so much violence it was all too easy to insert their faces into the movie of his mind. Vivid colors splashed like fireworks in the blackness, pulsing then fading like multicolored campfire embers on an evening breeze. His father’s voice scolded him, telling him to live up to his responsibilities as a man. His maternal grandfather-the man from whom he’d inherited his fighting nature-whispered softly about being prepared to die. The women in his life-Kim, Mattie, his mother, even Ronnie-came to him in turn to weep and plead for his help. Mattie was the worst. Her trusting eyes stung him like slaps to the face. He’d promised to protect her.

His rational mind told him what the man with the scorpion on his neck was doing. It was textbook brutality from the Cold War-era CIA KUBARK interrogation training manual. Strip away the clothing and all manner of identity, plant seeds of doubt.

Understanding the system did little to protect against it.

Quinn was shaking with rage by the time the box opened to let in a flood of light. Restrained, he could do nothing but wait for what happened next.

This time, they tied him down. Thick leather belts strapped his ankles and wrists to the gray metal chair. His naked skin was tender and wrinkled from hours in the saltwater chamber.

Across from him, the bald man with the scorpion tattoo on his neck sat in a similar chair, rubbing the point of his chin as he stared at his prisoner. A blue cordless drill hung from his other hand. The harsh interrogation light was gone, allowing Quinn to look around the windowless, gray room. He gave a silent nod of understanding when he saw the disheveled figure of Lt. Colonel Fargo slouching in the corner. A younger Hispanic man with muscular shoulders and a narrow waist leaned against the wall beside him. He was the one who’d hit him with the hose.

Squaring his shoulders, Quinn pressed his back hard against the chair and fought to regain his composure. The man with the scorpion tattoo was a professional. He knew the tricks, the subtle nuances of human behavior that displayed flickers of weakness. Quinn was pretty sure this one would be able to kill a weakling like Fargo with a prolonged stare.

“I have my doubts that pain will work on you,” the bald man said, suddenly standing to loom over Quinn, his face just inches away. There was the hint of chocolate ice cream on his breath.

A milkshake. Quinn studied the man’s solid muscles through the thin fabric of his gray Under Armour T-shirt. Someone this ripped wasn’t the type to eat ice cream before bed. It had to be near lunchtime, which meant he’d been a prisoner more than twenty-four hours.

If Hunt had gotten the message out, Thibodaux would be looking for him by now.

The bald man smiled. “You’re mulling over thoughts of rescue,” he whispered. “I can see the pitiful flash of it in your eyes. They all think of rescue for a time.” He pulled the trigger on the drill.

Quinn braced himself as the motor revved to a high-pitched whine. He kept his eyes open, focused on the twisted face of his captor.

The man released the trigger on the drill.

“No.” He stood up straight again, taking a half step back from Quinn to study him, hand to chin, like an artist. “The pain of a drill bit going through your kneecap wouldn’t work on you.” He took a quick breath and raised his eyebrows, wrinkling his smooth scalp. “But have you considered this possibility? Let’s suppose you are rescued shortly after I ruin your knee. Where would you be then? On a government pension, making forty percent of whatever pitiful salary they’re paying you now? And if you’re not convicted of spying, do you think your friends overseas will prop you up?”

“Do you honestly believe I’m a spy?” Quinn whispered. “Is that what Fargo told you?”

The man shrugged. “I’ll tell you what I believe,” he said. “I believe you don’t think I’ll hurt you because we are both Americans.”

With that, he handed the drill to Fargo and pulled a set of hooked pruning shears from his back pocket.

Quinn struggled against the restraints, trying to rock his chair, but found it was bolted solidly to the floor.

The bald man moved closer, nodding as his black eyes flicked over Quinn from head to foot, searching to find a suitable target. “You have taken remarkable care of yourself… considering how you’ve abused your body over the years…” He touched the cool blades to a white scar on Quinn’s shoulder. “Isn’t it amazing the horrible things that run through the mind of a naked man when someone gets near him with a cutting instrument?” He turned to look over his shoulder at Fargo. “What do you think, Colonel? Shall we conduct a little operation?”

“You’re the expert in these matters.” Fargo nodded, staring at the floor. “Do as you see fit.”

Across the room, the Hispanic man gave a scoffing chuckle.

“Quinn,” Fargo spat. “You have to admit that you have an awful lot of explaining to do.” The words fell flat, sounding like something one would say to a disobedient child rather than a prisoner about to be mutilated.

“So far,” Quinn said, gritting his teeth as the bald man stooped beside him and pulled the little toe of his right foot away from the rest. “So far, no one has asked me any quest-”

He arched his back as the bald man clamped the shears around the toe, cutting skin and crushing bone in an agonizingly slow process. There was a sickening snap as the bone broke under the metal jaws. Quinn’s breath came in ragged gasps. Excruciating pain shot up his leg from the jagged nubbin.

The bald man stood, holding the bloody toe in front of Quinn’s face. “This little piggy’s going in the garbage,” he laughed maniacally, throwing his head back.

A sudden pounding rattled the metal door behind Quinn. The bald man’s eyes darted upward, he face creased with impatience.

There was another knock, followed by a muffled voice. “Someone wants to see the colonel.” The voice was muffled, unidentifiable.

The bald man stared hard at Fargo, who let the drill hang limply by his side. “Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”

“I… er… I mean… no, of course not.”

The bald man nodded. He raised his voice toward the door. “Jimenez, go see who it is.” He turned back to Quinn. “I want to get to this messy business of softening our traitor so the Colonel can ques-”

It seemed to Quinn that the door exploded off its hinges. The limp body of another man tumbled forward on top of the startled Jimenez. A bright white flash, like a sudden bolt of lightning, filled the room, followed by the booming crack of a stun grenade. A moment later, a dark form hit Fargo like a cannonball to the chest, propelling him backward and into the wall.

Quinn recognized Emiko Miyagi as she shot by, wearing black BDUs. Her dark hair was pulled back in a short ponytail. A wakizashi, the Japanese short sword, flashed in her hand.

“What the hell?” Fargo held up the drill to ward off the woman’s screaming attack. A moment later the revving drill and his hand, separated from his arm, lay convulsing on the concrete floor.